PrologueGestapo HeadquartersSaint Lô, FranceJune 6, 1944 Alex Powe slowly crept back into consciousness and became aware that he was being dragged. His hands were bound behind him, and he was face down. Two guards pulled him forward by the arms, and he could feel the toes of his boots bouncing over cobblestones. He felt cool air against his face and realized they must have brought him outside. His eyes were swollen completely shut from hours of brutal, methodical beating. He could not see anything, could not even sense light. He was unable to tell whether it was night or day. He desperately hoped the day had come, but had long since given up the belief that he would ever see another dawn. He knew before accepting the mission that, if he were captured, the Germans would execute him. The only question had been whether death would come swiftly or at the end of the long agony of a Gestapo torture chamber. Stories about the fate of captured agents had been trickling out of the occupied territory through the Resistance. The stories varied greatly, and some were utterly unbelievable, but they all had one thing in common. They were horrifying. Powe felt his head bounce off the ground as the dragging ended, and he was abruptly dropped by the guards. He could feel his face pressed against the grit of the street, but he felt no pain. Pain had mercifully left him some time during the night. His senses could no longer protest. He had been beaten beyond their capacity. During the first hours of interrogation, searing bolts of electric pain had coursed through his body with each excruciating blow, but as the beating continued, Powe lapsed into a dull throbbing daze from which he knew he would never emerge. He couldn’t remember when he had passed out, but he knew that he had not told them anything while he was conscious. He did remember thinking about his son. The child must have been born by now. He was due a week ago, but no word had come before they left for the mission. Somehow he knew it was a boy. Something inside him told him with certainty. During the most desperate moments of the beating, Powe had conjured an imaginary image of his son in his head. He used it to try to stay strong. The image was not of an infant, but of a boy, almost a teenager. It was a boy old enough to understand and to be proud. That was what got him through the night, the idea that one day his son would know what he had done and would be proud of his father. Powe had been captured within an hour after landing. During descent, his parachute had caught in a tree, and it had taken him half an hour to disentangle himself. He missed the initial rendezvous, and as required by the mission plan, the team left without him. It was too dangerous to wait for one man. A German patrol spotted Powe as he approached the second rendezvous point. Helpless to intervene, the other members of the team watched from their hiding place as the Germans captured him. Theirs was an extremely vital mission; failure to complete it could jeopardize the success of the entire D-Day landings. They could not risk discovery before destroying the objective, a key rail bridge leading to the proposed landing zones. They knew that Powe would be killed; there was no point worrying about that. Their greatest fear was that he would reveal their plan to the Germans before they could carry it out. The team leader decided to leave one man behind in hiding to observe what he could of Powe’s interrogation. He had a flare, and if he suspected that Powe had talked, he would shoot it into the night sky to warn the others. They would then blow the bridge early, another risky act, but one that would have to be taken under the circumstances. The man who had beaten Powe all through the night was the very image of Aryan supremacy. He was tall and thin with bright blue eyes and blond hair, and he wore a spotless black Gestapo uniform with gleaming decorations. When issuing orders to his men, he spoke German in measured tones with an edge of harshness, but when addressing Powe, he spoke in clear, perfect English with only a trace of an accent. At their first meeting after Powe’s capture, the man had been warm and courteous. He politely introduced himself as Hauptsturmführer Werner Krueger, head of the Gestapo in Saint Lô, and seemed genuinely eager to know Powe’s background. Although belied by an elegant manner and immaculate dress, Krueger was a sadistic brute. When the questions began to lead toward treason, Powe quit answering, and Krueger’s cordial demeanor evaporated. The Hauptsturmführer sighed deeply, stood, and calmly unbuttoned his tunic. He walked toward the back of the room, the clop of his boots echoing through the chamber. He brushed lint from his tunic with the back of his hand and hung the garment on a hook on the wall. From another hook, he took a heavily stained apron. He held it away from his body with both arms outstretched and snapped it gently as if straightening fresh bed linens. Then he slipped it over his head and tied it in the back. He began rolling up his shirtsleeves as if he were about to toss a salad. Two guards were binding Powe to the chair with rope. As Krueger approached, Powe saw that his eyes had changed. The bright blue had turned dark and there was a frightening glint to them, like something sinister was seeping out of his soul. Powe felt a chill run up his spine. It was the last thing he felt before the beating began. Despite considerable experience and an apparent lust for the work, Krueger was not particularly good at torture. The idea was to coerce important information from an uncooperative prisoner in a timely manner by the methodical application of ever-increasing levels of pain. The gradual build-up of intensity in pain was the key to effective interrogation. A skilled interrogator worked on the mind of the victim, using proper technique to produce such horrific dread of the coming agony that no one, no matter how strong, could bear it. Krueger went about it as if the desired information could only be extracted from the victim’s brain by brute force. He beat prisoners with his bare hands, slapping them with open hands at first, then backhanding them with increasing force. Eventually, he used his fists, each vicious blow followed by one more savage and powerful. He beat prisoners like a man who knew what it was to be beaten, as though he was exacting revenge for a childhood of abuse. The man whose sad duty it was to observe Powe’s beating was his fellow agent William Dunavant. The two men had entered training together to become agents of the Office of Strategic Services. While enduring the unit’s rigorous training course, they had become close friends. Since completing training, they had worked on several missions together in occupied France. It was hazardous work, and many of their fellow OSS agents had been killed or captured. They had grown to trust their lives to each other. Dunavant had volunteered immediately to stay behind when the team leader explained the plan to keep watch over Powe’s interrogation. Now, he sat in the dark shadows of the shrubbery along the edge of the building listening through a low basement window. He could hear with sickening clarity the meaty smacks as his friend was slowly beaten to death. Just before dawn, the sky lit up with a brilliant red glare and the ground shook from a violent explosion. Dunavant knew it was the railway bridge a few kilometers away. Amid the ensuing chaos, as German soldiers poured out of the building and gawked at the glow to the northeast, Dunavant eased out of his hiding spot and headed for the next rendezvous point. He paused at the western corner of the grounds, hiding again in the thick foliage there. He looked back at the stone building. He was thinking about how foolish it would be to try to save Powe, but the more he sat there, the more he thought that he could not leave him. After all, the mission had been accomplished. There were no more secrets to compromise. The only thing left to betray was his friend, and he wasn’t going to do that. He was working out a plan in his head when he saw two uniformed guards bringing Powe out. They had him by the arms, dragging him into the street. Then they dropped him face-first onto the cobblestones. Another man followed them wearing a dirty smock, almost like a cooking apron. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows; he looked like a butcher. Even from sixty yards away, Dunavant could see the splotches of dark, wet blood on the apron. Then he saw the pistol in his hand as the man brought it up to waist level and pointed it at the back of Powe’s neck. He saw the muzzle flash before he heard the report. Powe’s body lurched with the shot and then went still.